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I’ll help her, of course. And I guess I’ll be interviewed today about it. Weird to be on the other end of the microphone. And weirder to watch it on TV.

Eyes still closed, I reach out a hand to touch Josh. He’s not here. Probably in the bathroom. I have about four more minutes. I nestle in again, holding on to peace. I’ll go to the office, help Liz with the Bexter story.

Then Franklin and I will figure out how to approach Loudon Fielder.

“Sweets? You awake?”

I feel Josh standing by the bed, his presence altering the darkness behind my closed eyelids.

“Yes,” I say, because it’s true. And there’s only three minutes until the alarm rings. My eyes struggle to open and through my still-fuzzy vision, I see Josh holding a cup of what I hope is coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Caffeine and news. Makes it much easier to wake up after a rough night of almost getting murdered.

I ease upright, scooting my rear against the pillows and reaching out to Josh. He hands me the ceramic mug, and kisses me on the top of my head. He sits on the edge of the bed, still holding the newspaper, as I take my first delicious sip.

“Mmm,” I say. “This is perfect. A good day to be alive.”

“Sweets?” Josh says. “You might want to look at the paper.”

“The-?”

He takes my mug and hands me the folded Boston Globe. I open to the front page.

The story is on the left, one column, below the fold.

Radio Mogul Dead.

I look at Josh. My brain races to makes sense of it. “How-?”

“Read it. Apparently the police…”

But I’m not listening to him anymore. I’m reading. Fast as I can.

The story is certainly surprising and definitely big news. But our story, even bigger, is safe. The Globe doesn’t have anything about car cloning, or air-bag theft, or valet parking, or the radio show. Even so, the paper’s last paragraph is a shocker.

“A massive stroke when the cops went to question him,” I say to Franklin, waving the paper at him as I walk into our office. I called him this morning at the same moment he called me. Of course.

“I called Zavala, of course,” I continue, taking off my coat and tossing it on my chair. “He told me No-Hat-whose name really is Doug Skith, astonishingly-ratted Fielder out in about thirty seconds. He gave up Taylor and Tyler, too. Now Zavala says the talk-show morons and No-Hat are battling it out with the district attorney to see who can turn state’s evidence faster.”

“Police came to Fielder’s door? And he just confessed?” Franklin asks.

“Well, no. He kept demanding a lawyer. Upset. Yelling at the cops,” I reply. “According to Zavala. He found out the rest from Skith and the Drive Time boys. Apparently Fielder was out of money. Radio station revenues tanking, fewer people using valet parking. So he decided to reorganize his resources. Took cars from one of his businesses, cloned them at another-”

“The Beacon Trust owned the Newtonville garage, too?”

“Yup. According to Zavala.” I nod. “He sold the air bags on the black market. Big bucks. And then sold the stolen cloned cars via the radio show. Even bigger bucks. Oh, and guess what? The stolen blue Mustang? The one No-Hat tried to sell me? No-Hat told them it was stolen from Randall Kindell’s rental lot. It was the car I saw on the lift.”

“So Fielder’s implicated to the hilt.” Franklin’s multi-tasking, of course, sorting his mail as we talk. He tosses a manila envelope into the wastebasket and places another envelope in a growing stack on his desk. He picks up his letter opener.

“Yup. Zavala told me it was No-Hat Doug Skith and his thug buddies who ruined the operation. Crashing the Mustang into Declan Ross, that’s one thing. But killing Borum? Carjackings? Fielder never authorized anything like that. Still, it was his setup. As they handcuffed him to take him to the police station, he collapsed.”

I tap my pen on the Boston Globe, now spread out on my desk. “But all the paper has, thanks to my beloved Lieutenant Zavala, is Fielder questioned about some un-disclosed financial scheme, dies of a stroke, his wife mourns the tragedy.”

And there’s the shocker. I read, for the millionth time, the last lines of the brief Boston Globe article.

The radio mogul’s wife, Alice Hogarth Fielder, told a reporter she was bewildered by the developments. According to sources, she is now in seclusion.

I don’t need the now-burned Bexter report to confirm that Harrison Ebling had also circled Alice Hogarth’s name. That means she was probably being blackmailed, too. Did she give up a baby? Did she ever tell her husband? Did she pay extortion money? Did he?

Out of the corner of my ear I hear paper ripping. And then unfolding. And then I hear Franklin catch his breath.

“What?” I say. Fleetingly, a selfishly unworthy thought flickers through my mind. Maybe the NewYork deal is off.

“In a plain envelope,” he says, holding up a white piece of paper. It looks like a photocopy of a photo. “It’s a picture of Michael-”

“Borum’s blue Mustang.” I finish the sentence. “David Chernin at the Mass Turnpike offices must have sent it to us.”

“Not that it matters now.” Franklin folds the photo back into the envelope. “That car’s a crispy critter.”

I think back about Michael Borum, an everyday guy who did an everyday thing. Tossed the keys to his car to a valet parker and expected it to be returned after dinner. But Michael Borum gave his car to the wrong valet at the wrong time. And got killed for it.

“No, it’s still important,” I say. “Because this photo proves his car was not where it was supposed to be. Can you believe it? After all that, turns out Michael Borum is helping us.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I push the black button that connects me, electronically, with Liz Whittemore. I’m surrounded by flashing monitors and muttering technicians in the bustle and squawk of ENG Receive. Liz is across town, outside on the snowy common in front of Main Hall, ready to front her first live shot about the Bexter murder and extortion. J.T.’s with her, shooting it all, since there’s no reason for him not to be part of it. Suddenly, someone flips on the portable light in front of her. Liz’s red Channel 3 parka pops against the white snow and the lofty evergreens. I lean closer to the silver microphone. “Congratulations, girl,” I tell her. “Just give me credit when you pick up your Emmy.”

I see Liz put a gloved hand to her ear, holding in her earpiece as she listens to me. She smiles, though she can’t see me, and gives a thumbs-up to the camera.

“Your story’s on next week, Charlie,” she says into her microphone. “It’ll blow this one out of the water.”

Secretly, I hope she’s right. But that I don’t say.

“Private School, Private Lives.” The too-sensational-for-my-taste black-and-red graphic suddenly appears in several monitors as the bright green numbers of the digital clocks tick toward the six o’clock news. The thumping drive of the electronic news theme fills the room.

ENG Joanna nudges me out of the way and leans into the mic.

“Fifteen seconds, Liz,” she says.

Liz nods, her lips pressed together. She’s nervous. My own heart races in reporter empathy, remembering the feeling. Being the new kid. The pressure of a first big story. A career maker. Or breaker. The anchor has begun the introduction to the story, but there’s still time for me to give Liz one more bit of encouragement. I reach for the mic button. And then I see Liz change. Her head comes up, her eyes sparkle, she radiates confidence. She doesn’t need me.

“Go for it,” I whisper.

Even though I know the story much better than Liz does, it’s still a blockbuster.