And Alethia? They actually called her, then killed her, too. Dorothy’s best friend. Who they might assume she confided in. Mystery solved. Kindell and Fiona. Yes. Definitely yes.
But as I hurry through the basement door and up the inside stairway toward Kevin’s office, I reconsider. No. Definitely no. It’s not Fee Dulles and Randall Kindell. If Fiona and Kindell killed Dorothy and Alethia, how’d they do it? They would have been noticed hanging around at Bexter the night of Alethia’s “fall,” certainly. And would it mean Wen Dulles was in on it, too? He and Fiona were together at the Head’s party. He’d be Fiona’s alibi for the night of Dorothy’s murder.
I shake my head as I yank open the metal stairwell door to the my office floor. This theory is too complicated to be true.
It’s all about the names on the list. The list I used to have.
“Harrison,” I say out loud as I walk into the hallway and turn toward Kevin’s office. “He’s got to have those addresses for me.”
“What addresses?” Franklin comes through the double glass doors of Special Projects, and into the hallway. He’s in his usual perfect khakis. Today’s crewneck sweater is pale blue. Both his arms are loaded. He’s carrying a box of yellow videotapes with a sheaf of papers stacked on top.
“Hey, Franko,” I say, changing the subject. “You get any sleep? Can I help carry something?”
“Welcome to work,” he says, eyeing my overcoat and muffler. “These are the tapes from last night. And the logs. I came in early to transcribe them. Remember, we planned to do that together this morning? So we could be ready to cue up the appropriate video for Kevin?”
I look at him, feeling my mouth drop open in dismay.
“What, did you forget?”
He’s right. I forgot. I completely forgot.
“How could you forget?” Franklin’s face twists in concern. “Are you-okay? You haven’t been yourself lately. Not connected to our story. This is big, Charlotte. And this is the first time I’ve seen you so distracted. You’re always gone. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No, of course not,” I begin to defend myself. But he’s right. And of course there’s something I’m not telling him. A lot. At least I won’t have to tell him I’m going to New York. I hold up my left hand, fluttering my fingers, choosing a believable fib. “Wedding jitters. And I am not always gone.”
“Well then, how come-”
“Hey, Charlie…hey, Franklin.” Liz Whittemore, the nightside reporter, strides down the hall toward the stairway. She’s snapped into a TV-sleek red parka with the Channel 3 logo prominently displayed. Knowing they’ll never show on the air, she’s put on the world’s ugliest snow boots. “How’s it go-”
Franklin stops talking.
Liz pauses, looking between us. “Oh. Sorry to interrupt.”
“No, it’s nothing,” Franklin says. Clearly he’s lying. And Liz knows it.
“Great job with Fran Rivera the other night. Good story on the carjacking.” I try to smooth the edges of the awkward moment, giving the young reporter a thumbs-up.
“Thanks, Charlie. Means a lot, coming from you.”
Franklin raises a derisive eyebrow in my direction. Liz, looking at me, misses his unspoken commentary on her compliment.
“In fact, I’m on my way to another one,” she continues.
“Another one?” I say.
“A carjacking?” Franklin says.
“Apparently. This time they took an Explorer,” Liz says. “No one’s hurt, though. Probably won’t even make the six o’clock news.”
Franklin and I look at each other, argument forgotten, as Liz runs off. This may change everything.
“We’re right on time, and with a big breaking story,” I say, peering through the glass door of Kevin’s office. “And now Kevin’s on the phone?”
Franklin and I are pretending the skirmish in the hallway never happened. The arrival of J.T. outside the news director’s office made our cease-fire easier. And the idea that the bad guys have carjacked an Explorer has pumped all three of us full of story adrenaline. If it’s fire-engine red, like ours, we may be in the money.
I can barely keep from rubbing my hands together in expectation.
“That Explorer is going to have our car’s VIN number. It probably already does,” I say. “It’ll be a clone of ours. Now we’ve got to find that car.”
“Which is, of course, the big mystery,” Franklin says. “Where would they hide it?”
“Well, they have to attach the new VIN, right? So I say, not such a mystery. Those guys are definitely going to take their ill-gotten treasure to the Newtonville garage, slap on the swiped VIN and transform that stolen car into our not-stolen Explorer.”
“Look at him,” J.T. says, waving a disdainful hand toward Kevin’s closed glass door. “He’s, like, completely ignoring us. And we’re out here with the story of the century.”
We see Kevin, phone clamped to his ear, elbows on his desk. He’s oblivious to everything but his conversation.
“Maybe he’s got a job offer,” I say. Oops. That was supposed to be sarcastic. But it’s not so funny, since it’s actually true and I’m not supposed to mention it.
“So, you think it’s hidden-camera time?” Franklin says. “Go back to Newtonville?”
Franklin doesn’t seem to be picking up on my potential slip of the tongue. So I guess I’m fine.
“We go back out there-and I want to go with you two this time-and see what they’re doing?” he continues. “See if they bring in a red Explorer?”
I lean on the edge of an empty desk and cross my arms, thinking. The newsroom is deserted. The noon news is just over. Almost everyone has bolted to get lunch.
“I suppose the hidden-camera thing could work,” I say. “But problem is, even if we see an Explorer inside, we’d only be able to get wide shots of it. I mean, it’s a garage. People expect cars to be there. People expect mechanics to be working on them. How would we prove they were changing the VIN?”
“Hey, Miss McNally.”
I turn to see an intern pushing the battered mail-delivery cart toward Kevin’s office. The cart is probably older than she is. The intern has on matchstick jeans that she’s somehow rolled up in precisely the same thickness over each of her shiny leather boots. She apparently purchased her sweater from the too-small store.
“Hey,” I say. I jump up, getting out of the way of the wobble-wheeled cart. For a million dollars, I have no idea of this person’s name. She knows me, that’s easy enough. I’ve been on television since before she was born. But who on earth could keep track of all the interns’ names?
“Hi, Kaitlin,” Franklin says.
“Hey, Kaitlin,” J.T. says.
Show-offs.
“Oh, Miss McNally,” she says, rummaging through rubber-banded stacks of padded manila mailers and narrow white envelopes. She pulls out a packet and hands it to me, smiling. “You’ve got mail.”
“Job offers,” I say to Franklin, making sure he knows all my job-offer references are teasing. “And certainly fan letters.”
I take the mail, then change my mind. I don’t want to carry it all into our meeting. And it looks as though Kevin may be wrapping up his call.
“Thanks, Kaitlin.” Like I knew her name all the time. “But can you drop it upstairs, as usual?”
Then I glance at the envelopes. The top one is from WWXI. And it has a little see-through window. I slide the envelope from beneath the rubber band. “Oh, wait. This must be my paycheck from doing Maysie’s show.”
I hand back the rest of the mail, fold the Wixie envelope into thirds and-no pockets. I lift one edge of my skirt and slide the folded envelope down the inside of my left boot.
Kevin’s door opens and he waves us inside. He reaches for his mail as we take our seats.