“Well, of course, I wanted to,” I say. “You should have been there, for so many reasons. But Oz ‘allowed’ me to call Kevin, then I had to sit in his stupid conference room until Toni showed up.”
“No, before that,” he says. “I asked Walt to tell you to call me.”
I roll my eyes, disparaging. “You kidding me? He forgot, the moment the words came out of your mouth. The man’s a living sieve. Anyway. What’s up?”
Franklin unzips his leather folder, and pulls out his copy of the Bresnahan application. He points to the “most recent previous address” line, where Bresnahan had written “732 Nelson Road, Conifer, Utah.” He shakes his head. “Our Mr. DeCenzo, may he rest in peace, was apparently not much of a reference checker. I didn’t even have to make one phone call. Just checked this out on GeoTracker. And Tommy Bresnahan? Could not have lived there. There’s no such place.”
“Let’s see,” I say, taking the paper. I’ve barely had a chance to think about what was on the form. I read it again, analyzing each entry.
“It’s all about the social,” I say. “We need to run it, see what we come up with for a current address.” I pause and unhook my reading glasses from the neckline of my camisole. Flapping them open, I look again at the application. “The social,” I say again. “Is wrong.”
“Wrong from what?” Franklin says.
A new Maysie, glammed and gleaming, parades across the newsroom floor, stylist Marie-Rosina pouffing her new shaggy do with a last spritz of hairspray as she walks. Rick the makeup guy trails behind. Maysie stops in front of us, then twirls, showing off the sleek cherry-red pencil-skirted suit we chose from the selection Saks sent over. I think I glimpse the beginnings of a tummy, and it’s all I can do to keep from hugging her.
“Don’t touch me,” she warns as she comes to a stop, catching her balance as the still-slick bottoms of her new high-heeled pumps slide on the newsroom carpeting. “My face will shatter into a million tiny pieces of foundation and my hair will collapse.” She smiles. “But what do you think?”
“Not bad for a sports radio chick,” I say, nodding in admiration. “You clean up like a pro.”
“You’ve got too much blush on your left cheek,” Franklin assesses. “Rick?” he calls out. “Blush emergency.”
Rick dashes up with a fluffy brush, then waves it at Franklin instead. “You’re a funny, funny guy. Ignore him, Maysie,” he says. “You’re gorgeous.”
A producer calls “Places!” Maysie and her entourage hurry to the anchor desk. Franklin and I wave good luck.
“Wrong from what?” Franklin repeats.
I pull out someone’s newsroom chair, revealing a stash of shoes, boots and umbrellas piled chaotically under the desk. A reporter must sit here. “Wrong from the…well, look. You know they usually assign social security numbers based on where you apply for the number. And usually, people born in the U.S. get them pretty young. So, like, mine begins with the numbers three-one. So do most people’s who were born in Chicago.”
“Oh yeah, I guess I knew that,” Franklin says.
“You did not,” I say. “But, nevertheless. Bresnahan’s social begins with zero one.”
“Give me a break,” Franklin says. “No way you know the social security, prefix, or whatever they call it, for Utah.”
I nod, smiling. “And that, my dear colleague, is the point. I do not know the prefix for Utah. However, I do know the prefixes assigned to people who were born in Massachusetts.” I pause, letting my meaning sink in.
“Zero one,” Franklin says. “So Bresnahan’s whole history is fake.”
“Yup,” I reply. “Sure does sound like it. Wonder where poor Del DeCenzo would be today if he had just bothered to check some references. Looks like we’ve got a Massachusetts boy on our hands.”
A barrage of lights flash on overhead. A blast of techno-theme music surges through the newsroom, cuts into silence, then starts up again. A blaring loudspeaker blasts the director’s voice from the control room. “Mic check, please, Maysie?” he bellows. “And can we please get a move on with this?”
I turn to Franklin, torn between wanting to see Maysie’s rehearsal and needing to find Tommy Bresnahan. “You know,” I whisper, not wanting to disrupt the taping, “I saw DeCenzo put my card in his wallet as I walked out of The Reefs. But Oz said police found it on the bar. If it was Tommy who killed him, I bet he knows I was there.”
“Five, four, three…” I hear the floor director start to count Maysie down, then see him point to her. You’re on, he mouths silently.
“And you’re not hard to find,” Franklin whispers back.
Which means I have to find him first. I sneak a look at Maysie. She’s smiling and gesturing, reading from the prompter like a pro.
“Listen, Franko,” I say softly. “I’m going up to the office. It’s almost seven o’clock here, but that means it’s still before five in Mountain Time. Maybe we can make this time-zone thing work for us. DeCenzo didn’t check all of Tommy’s references. Didn’t check his social. But I’m going to. I’ve got to see if I can dig up this Bresnahan.”
Franklin nods, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. “Maysie will understand. I’m leaving soon, too. Stephen’s picking me up. Want to join us for dinner?” he asks.
I shake my head, knowing once again, dinner is just a fond memory. “See you tomorrow, say hi to your adorable Stephen.” I wave and turn to head back to my desk.
“Charlotte,” Franklin hisses after me.
I turn, impatient to get back to work.
“Be careful tracking Bresnahan,” he says. His already solemn face is filled with concern. “We don’t want him to find you first.”
CHAPTER 22
I’m not really thrilled with the idea of going home. I sit at my desk, flipping a pencil over and over. Stalling. It’s late. It’s probably dark. I don’t have my car. Living alone with a coward of a cat is not terribly reassuring when, as Franklin and I both know, there’s apparently a bad guy out there. Still, I know Oz and his crew are certainly looking for Bresnahan. And the A.G.’s office has access to the database resources of every law enforcement agency in the country. And I faxed the job application to Rankin at CJP. So his people have it, too. We’re all on the trail.
Of course, Bresnahan may not be guilty. What’s his motive? But who else could it be? I tilt back in my chair, lacing my fingers behind my head. Now I’m considering Tek. As lead cop on the investigation, he could have railroaded the witnesses to identify Dorinda. He could have manipulated the case every step of the way. But why?
But Bresnahan has been hiding, successfully, for the past three years. If he’s reappearing, it seems like the only reason would be to make sure Dorinda stays guilty. And stays in prison.
But how would he know that’s in question? Propping my feet up on my desk, I close my eyes and I think back, retracing our steps. Franklin went to the cop shop, the local newspaper. I went to the high school library, the state archives, the prison, the women’s shelter, the nursing home. We both went to the Sweeney’s house. Myra Matzenbrenner’s. So fine. Bresnahan could know.
My heart rate flares and I startle to reality as my cell phone rings. “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” it warbles at me. Like I don’t know that. I swing my legs down and check caller ID. Private call. Not Josh. Not Franklin. Mom?
“McNally,” I say.
“Oh, marvelous, you’re still there,” a woman’s voice says. “This is Poppy Morency, Charlie. “
It only takes a second to remember the preppy and efficient real estate agent who showed us the Sweeney home.
“Hey, Ms. Morency,” I reply. “What can I do for you?”
I hear the clatter of traffic, a horn honking, a siren in the background. She’s calling from her car. “Well, I don’t know,” she says. “But you asked me to call you if anyone ever showed interest in the Sweeney home? Well, of course you know that.”